1642734778_punk-57-pdf

Relax, dude. You came home last week and checked, and there was a
letter there. It’s only been six days.
But I’m curious to see if she writes about Masen. What will she say
about him?
Ryen rarely ever mentions another guy in her letters. After the one she
told me about when she was sixteen—the one she lowered her standards for
—she seems to have kept guys at a distance. In fact, it’s almost like she’s
lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once.
I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of
writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.
Six days. My last letter from her was six days ago. Her last letter from
me was over three months ago. I made her promise never to stop writing
me, and she never has. She remains constant, even despite the lack of faith
she must have by now that I’ll ever write her again.
My shoulders slump a little, thinking about how she’s always been there
for me. Her bullshit pisses me off, but to Misha, she’s been a friend. And a
very good one.
Annie would be disappointed in me if I treated badly the only person
left who loved everything about me.
Goddammit. Fuck.
I let out a hard sigh and walk into the hallway, rounding the bannister
and jogging up the stairs. Approaching my sister’s room, I slowly twist the
door knob and enter, her smell and the remnants of her carpet freshener
suddenly wafting over me.
My heart aches, seeing everything the way she left it. Tidy and ready for
her to come home from her jog that night. A bed she would never sleep in
again, make-up she would never touch again, assignments that lay
unfinished on her desk…